


The Right Motivation

by shealynn88



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A little angst, Denial of Feelings, Fighting, M/M, Post-Season/Series 03, ao3 can have, as a treat, blowjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24702859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shealynn88/pseuds/shealynn88
Summary: Derek is training Stiles to fight.  He just needs to find the right motivation.“Uh-huh,” Stiles murmurs, biting his way up to Derek’s jaw as Derek’s fingers dig into his ribs. Nothing sharp.  Derek is still incredibly careful.  Even with his eyes glowing and fangs bared, he still has iron control.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 13
Kudos: 177





	The Right Motivation

Stiles pants, crouched and ready for the next attack. His legs are burning. His lungs, too. 

“Where are we, Stiles?” Derek taunts. “Second base? What if I sweeten the pot, huh? I’ve already wiped the floor with you twice. You’ve got bruises in places you didn’t even know you had.” He rushes forward and tosses Stiles again, and Stiles finds himself sliding through pine needles _again_ , and, fuck, that’s going to leave a mark.

Derek comes after him and Stiles rolls, goes to sweep the leg, then jumps up as Derek sails over him with ease.

Stiles has a small baton, now. It’s not his bat, but it’s collapsible, and Kira gave him a few lessons not too long ago. If only he remembered the nogitsune enough to retain some useful muscle memory when it came to using it...

“Break my finger, I’ll suck your dick. How’s that? Enough to get you motivated?” Derek dances away when Stiles strikes out, and Stiles just manages to slide under the returning punch. “Break my arm, my leg, you get to go all the way.” He spins back and catches Stiles’ cheekbone with the back of his hand. Stiles blindly shoves the baton into his ribs and they stagger apart. 

Derek faces him, crouching down. “But if I get the upper hand again, I will make absolutely sure you don’t come for a month.”

What they have is weird. It’s not a relationship. Stiles is pretty sure he doesn’t even like the guy. “You’re such an asshole,” he gasps.

Derek smiles, all teeth. “Not unless you break me, Stiles.” He charges in again and Stiles falls and punches up with the baton, feels it connect, and then he springs up before Derek can recover. 

He hopes.

When he turns back, Derek’s mouth is lolling wide and all his teeth are on display. His eyes are bright blue and he looks like he’s having the time of his life. He’s crouched and ready for another attack, but when he holds up his hand, his index finger is crooked. 

“Looks like someone’s getting lucky,” Derek says, and then he lunges.

Stiles rolls to the side, using the baton to protect his neck and the top of his spine. He tries to remember what Derek’s taught him. Don’t follow a pattern. Protect his throat, abdomen, spine. If all else fails, keep rolling. Do the unexpected.

So when he feels Derek behind him, he turns abruptly, lowers his center of gravity and shoves up, using the werewolf’s weight against him. Derek tumbles and Stiles goes after him. 

Coach would be proud.

Derek rolls him but Stiles still has a solid hold on the back of his neck, even from the bottom. 

He doesn’t pull Derek down so much as he hauls himself up, licking into the pit of Derek’s neck and hearing the satisfying growl of Derek switching gears.

“Stiles,” Derek threatens.

“Yeah,” Stiles encourages, setting teeth into the skin and biting down as hard as he can without drawing blood.

“Fuck,” Derek grunts, and then he shoves Stiles roughly under his body, straddling him and tossing the baton to one side.

“Uh-huh,” Stiles agrees, biting his way up to Derek’s jaw as Derek’s fingers dig into his ribs. Nothing sharp. Derek is still incredibly careful. Even with his eyes glowing and fangs bared, he still has iron control.

Derek growls again, deep in his chest, a rumble Stiles can feel through his entire body. He pulls away and then noses under Stiles’ chin, setting those big teeth against Stiles’ pulse. 

Stiles goes still, pliant. He trusts Derek but he can’t control the shivers that race down his spine. Instinctually, this is terrifying. Terrifying and exhilarating, and he never wants it to end. 

“Der?” he asks, his voice trembling despite all attempts to keep it steady. 

The points against his throat change, get broad, the canines shrink back down until a full set of incisors sit against Stiles’ carotid. 

Derek’s breath is hot and his tongue burns against Stiles’ throat—between broad strokes, he murmurs things Stiles can barely hear.

“ _Don’t you let them touch you, I’ll kill them all, Stiles. Every single one. If they hurt you—_ ”

“Hey,” Stiles manages, a strangled sound as he drags Derek’s head up so he can look him in the eye.

“No one’s looking to die here, okay? We do what we have to.”

Derek snarls but his teeth stay blunt, canines just this side of normal. “Don’t,” he says, and he sounds furious. “Don’t you dare.”

He pins Stiles down with a hand spread wide under his jaw and Stiles’ heart picks up as Derek’s other hand trails south. They’ve kissed. They’ve cursed at each other while checking wounds and chastising; they’ve pressed lips into bloody scratches and bandages. Derek’s set his teeth into Stiles’ skin often enough that his brain is utterly confused about when to be scared and when to be turned on.

But they don’t _like_ each other. Not really.

Stiles has stopped imagining life without Derek because it just seems easier. He’s stuck with him, obviously, and he might as well get used to it. 

And he has. He _has_ gotten used to it. 

Used to it, but not used to _this_. One hot hand against his throat. The other trailing down the center of his chest, under his rucked up shirt and pressing into the well of his belly button. Then further, until Stiles forgets how to breathe.

“Stiles?”

Stiles makes a noise, something that might be questioning, but is mostly just his brain melting.

“Hey.” Derek’s fingers — his incredible, broad fingers — are set just against the skin at the waistline of Stiles’ jeans. Waiting.

Stiles has forgotten about words. There’s heat, and his skin burns and tingles and feels like he maybe stuck something he shouldn’t have in an electrical socket. He feels everything absolutely everywhere and he _wants_. God, he just wants, just _needs_ , just—

“Wouldn’t go...go back on your word, now...would you?” he breathes, finally, and Derek’s fingers work his pants open. He can feel the breeze against his skin, against his hip bone, oh, God, cold against his cock and then the burning heat of Derek’s hand and Christ this may last all of five seconds if he’s lucky because this...he’s imagined it, of course he has, but never...never in his wildest dreams was he pinned and helpless while Derek Hale set his lips against the sensitive skin of Stiles’ belly and licked softly.

Stiles is making sounds, he doesn’t know what they are, and Derek is still holding him down by his throat when Derek’s mouth finds his cock and the world goes completely white behind his eyelids as Derek slides down. Better than he’d ever imagined. He’s touched himself and wondered before but this, this is completely new. It’s an out of body experience. It’s so much, it’s so hot, it’s—

“Oh, God, oh God, oh God, Der, Derek, _oh_ —” and he’s not pulling at him or pushing really, he might be moving his hips, he has no idea. He’d be embarrassed if he still had room for thinking because he’s already coming, he can’t help it, it’s so much it’s almost painful. It’s absolutely everything. 

The hand holding him down goes gentle, stroking at his jaw, his mouth, and he’s panting and he can’t catch his breath and if this is how he dies so be it. Except Derek had seemed really concerned about that.

Derek is touching him, now. His face. “You did a good job today,” he says softly.

Stiles grins, still trying to catch his breath. “Yeah, buddy, you too.” He gestures downward in case Derek hasn’t caught his meaning.

“Too bad you didn’t break something bigger,” Derek whispers. “Maybe next time.”

There are fifty smartass things he could say — big bones, and top dogs and...anything but what actually comes out of his mouth. “I don’t want to break you,” he says, and it’s so soft he immediately regrets it. 

It’s not like that. Of course it’s not like that. He doesn’t even like Derek.

Derek kisses his temple, and it burns in a whole new way. Deep. Winding. Seeping into veins and arteries like poison.

Then Derek sighs. He sets his forehead against Stiles’ cheekbone for a moment and then looks up with a crooked smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t worry. You will.” He gets up and brushes off his jeans while Stiles zips his pants and struggles to his feet.

Derek doesn’t quite look at him when he says, “Come by tomorrow after school. You need to practice your throws.”

Stiles pastes on a grin. “My throws. Yes, indeed. See you then, sourwolf,” and he gives a jaunty two finger salute before he turns away and lets the smile fall.

He’s had bruises for weeks now, but they’ve never hurt like this. He doesn’t know what’s happening, but he knows one thing.

He’ll be back tomorrow for more.


End file.
